


I got troubled thoughts, and the self-esteem to match.

by lucifucker



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, alternating pov, author is incredible at tagging, domesticity/fluffy feelings, joe lives but barely!AU, kinda joe-centric because all my fics turn out that way sorry, non-graphic sexytimes, post young blood chronicles, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:40:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re all a little different, now. It’s not exactly surprising, but that doesn’t make it sting any less.</p><p>A post-young blood chronicles kinda fix-it fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I got troubled thoughts, and the self-esteem to match.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, guys. Reviews are nice, if you're nice, which I hope you are. Yaaay.

They’re all a little different, now. It’s not exactly surprising, but that doesn’t make it sting any less.

 

The fact that they always knew this would be hard doesn’t make it any easier when Joe wakes up screaming at night, sweat pouring down his face, clutching at a rope that isn’t around his throat. It doesn’t soothe the pain that Andy feels every time he watches the younger man try to sing, hears the rasp in Joe’s voice that wasn’t there, before.

 

And it doesn’t take away from the fact that Patrick almost kills an asshole in the crowd for jumping Pete outside a show in Minneapolis, because yeah, they lived through something fucking terrible, and they’re all scarred, probably for life, but that doesn’t make the music mean any less, and they’re not going to stop. Patrick not being able to play guitar just means that he moves around more on stage.

 

But it’s like their roles have all switched, because once upon a time, it was Patrick getting shoved into walls by strangers, and Pete tackling them to the floor, screaming obscenities and pummelling their faces until the blood on the floor had spread out like a crown around their heads. But now, Pete’s the one grabbing Patrick’s shoulders, gentle but firm, with shaking hands, and pulling him away, cradling Patrick’s head against his chest and holding him still while he roars, less human, now, than before, the noise petering off into gasps for air as his fingers curl tightly into Pete’s shirt.

 

And instead of Andy falling asleep wrapped up in Joe’s arms, out of necessity, they do it the other way around, with Andy pressed against Joe’s back, because Joe can’t sleep with his back to the room anymore. Because if he did, something, anything, could get him. So Andy slides in behind him every night, wraps one arm securely around Joe’s waist, and nestles his nose into the conjunction of his neck and shoulder.

 

-0-

 

They do a show in Vegas, and Panic! shows up out of nowhere, the absolute best kind of surprise, except that Brendon’s eye is still covered in gauze, and Spencer’s still got bandages all over his neck and chest to cover the burns. But when they walk in, Ryan’s there, fingers linked with Brendon’s, and Patrick has to smile at that, because even if it took getting kidnapped and tortured to make them see it, at least it finally happened. He tells Pete as much, and Pete rolls his eyes, elbows him in the ribs, and says;

“You know, this is why we don’t let you and Hurley talk during interviews.” Which Joe hears, and immediately jumps in on.

“Wait, no, we’re letting Hurley talk during interviews? That shit ain’t happenin’.” Andy laughs, and smacks Pete upside the head, but Patrick sees Pete cast a thoughtful look in Brendon’s direction.

 

They decide to do What A Catch and 20 Dollar Nosebleed, and Patrick has to stop halfway through, because he can’t stop crying, he just can’t. He’s gasping, and he can’t breathe, and he needs Pete, needs him now, needs him five minutes ago, but Pete's not here, and this is it, he thinks, this is gonna be the point at which he loses the band and the shows and everything because he’s too much of a mess to finish, still playing piano while the tears stream down his face, when he hears a quiet voice over the din of the fans, picking up where he left off.

 

He whips his head around, and Andy’s standing up on stage, actually standing, in front of everyone, holding one of the mics, and he’s singing, soft, and sweet, and fucking perfect, looking up at Patrick with his back to the crowd, and Patrick stops crying, stops breathing, because Andy’s voice is, for the first time ever, filling the entire stadium, above the sounds of the crowd, who have now gone silent, in awe of what’s happening, because they’ve been playing for more than a decade, and Andy has never sung on his own. Not once.

 

They belt the last line together, and Andy sits back down, and Patrick thanks the audience, and then the drums are beating harder than ever, and Brendon flips out onstage in spite of his fucked-up depth perception, and it’s incredible.

 

Fucking incredible.

 

They end on Death Valley, and when it’s over, when they’ve walked offstage, Patrick makes a beeline for Andy, grabs him bodily and drags him close, clinging to him like a liferaft, and Andy does the same, wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck and buries his face in his hoodie.

 

“Thank you.” Patrick gasps, and Andy nods.

 

“‘Course.”

  
  


-0-

 

Gerard throws a party at his place, in memoriam of all those they’d lost, and Andy’s fingers find Joe’s without any hesitation as they walk inside, because they came so close, too close, but a few of them are gone. Just...gone. Andy doesn’t want to go, and Pete seems hesitant, which is odd, but Patrick, completely out of character, insisted, and Joe is always down for a party, even now.

 

There’s a sort of altar in one back room that it looks like people have been working on all together, and as they watch, Alex walks up, and places something on it, his fingers lingering over it when he walks away, nodding toward them as he goes. Joe steps forward, and Andy follows, and it’s all pictures, clothes, and jewelry, little things that remind them of their lost friends. The thing Alex had left is an ancient, weathered photo of him and Ryland, arms around each others shoulders, grinning wide in the bright white flash of the camera.

 

Andy’s eyes skim over the table, and he feels his gut jump when they land on a picture of Soren from back in 2011, laughing with his tongue stuck out, and his arms thrown out to the sides. He remembers taking that. He’d forgotten about New Politics, for the most part. Hadn’t checked in on them, too wrapped up in everything else. The concept that others had gone through what they did is...inconceivable, although he does know from talking about it with Brendon and Gabe that Fall Out Boy definitely got it the worst, as far as the torture goes, which he’s sort of thankful for, in a sickening, heart-stopping way.

 

They make their way back toward the rest of the party, and Andy tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. At some point, in the sea of people, Joe’s hand detaches itself from his, in favor of wading off into the crowd, and he’s alone.

 

Which, to be honest, he’s used to. Walking around a giant fucking mansion surrounded by drunk rockstars is basically Andy’s bread and butter, but that doesn’t make this easier. He finds the door, somehow, and sits down on Gerard’s back porch, wrapping his arms around his stomach against the cold, because, like an idiot, he left his coat in the car, and he’s not going to get it, because fuck that.

 

He doesn’t really have to worry, though, because within a minute of his curling up, someone drapes a hoodie over his shoulders, and a long, thin body sinks down next to him. He looks over and Pete smiles at him, a little crooked, and shrugs.

 

“Not really feeling it.” He says simply, and Andy raises an eyebrow.

“Then why are you here?” He asks, and Pete stares at him for a second before saying;

“Why are you here?” Andy shakes his head.

“Joe wanted to go.” He says, because that should be obvious, and Pete nods.

“So did Patrick.” It clicks pretty quickly, and Andy looks down.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

 

They’re quiet for a while, just staring out at Gerard’s weirdly extravagant backyard, and Andy’s reminded of the descriptions of the house in the Great Gatsby, what with the fountains and the groves of trees. Pete shifts closer, and presses his arm against Andy’s side, and Andt tilts his head, resting it on Pete’s shoulder. They don’t say anything. They don’t need to.

 

There’s a crash from inside, and someone sounding suspiciously like Joe shouts “FUCK” at the top of their lungs, raw, and pained, and Andy and Pete are both up in less than a second. They run toward the door, and Joe immediately runs out, crashing into Andy with all the force of a fucking train, knocking him down onto the concrete with a dull thud. Joe struggles frantically for a second, trying to push himself up off the ground while Andy’s arms slide tightly around his waist, and then he freezes, before going slack in Andy’s grip, his head falling to rest on Andy’s shoulder.

 

They stay like that for a while, while Pete and Gerard talk in hushed tones, and Andy hears the words “accident” and “PTSD” thrown around while Joe buries his face in the crook of his neck, fingers curling tightly in Andy’s t-shirt.

 

Eventually, Pete leaves, and comes back with Patrick in tow, who looks bone-tired, like just being here has rung him out too much for him to function, and Andy pulls Joe up, as gently as possible so he can half-carry him back around the house toward the car.

 

Later, they will find out that Gabe was more than a little high, hopped up on something that involved a needle and too much powder for anyone to be comfortable with it, and had cornered Joe, screamed at him that it was his fault, his fault that Ryland was gone, and why couldn’t he have just died, too, why was he allowed to live and Ryland wasn’t?

 

And that alone, Joe would’ve been able to handle, but when he walked away, Gabe had grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and pulled, and for a second, a split second, Joe’s shirt was wrapped around his neck.

 

And then Gabe was on his back on the floor, and Joe was kneeling over him with his fists already bloody, and he’d run outside, and found Andy.

 

“I couldn’t.” He says, over and over, like a mantra. “I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe.”

 

Andy listens as Joe explains, his voice shaking just enough that Pete’s hand snakes its way back from the front seat, and latches onto his knee, and when they get home, they make their way, slowly, to bed. Joe pulls off his shirt, and lets his shoulders sag, just slightly, turning it over in his hands like it’s the shirt’s fault. Like maybe if he’d worn something else, this wouldn’t have happened.

 

Andy strips down to his boxers, and steps up behind Joe, sliding his arms around his waist, and holding him, chest-to-back. His own fingers trace up Joe’s arms, and down toward the shirt, ever-so-gently taking it from his hands, and dropping it on the floor. Joe turns in Andy’s embrace, and his hands slide up, framing his face as he brings their lips together.

 

They crawl into bed together, curling up under the sheets, and Joe pillows his head on Andy’s chest, absentmindedly tracing the tattoos on his left arm. They fall asleep like that, like they always do, with Joe making his body smaller, and Andy wrapping himself around him, as though the darkness can be scared away by a tattooed vegan with a mohawk.

 

-0-

 

Gabe calls the next morning, and apologizes, and Joe says it’s fine a thousand times, but Andy doesn’t believe him, once.

 

The band plays a small gig that night in this little bar in town under a fake name, just the newer stuff, the stuff the label said was ‘too harsh’, and Andy doesn’t think he’s ever let this much anger into his playing before, although, as a drummer, it’s kind of fine that he does. In the end, he feels better, for it.

 

When they’re done, they all get in one car, and head to Pete’s. Bronx is there, still awake, because Pete’s a bad (great, fucking incredible) parent, and they all kind of gather in the living room with a twelve-pack of Fantas and just hang out, like they used to, laughing and throwing shit at each other, and when Bronx leaps on Joe’s back and demands a piggy back ride, Joe complies with gusto, and if at some point in the process the little guy’s arms wrap around his neck, Joe doesn’t show it, or doesn’t care, laughing and parading Bronx around like the weird-ass uncle that he is.

 

They end up talking in hushed tones, with Bronx curled up in a ball in Andy’s lap, his head cushioned on his thigh, and when Pete carries him off to bed, Joe takes his place.

  
  


-0-

  
  


The first time they have sex after getting home is on Joe’s birthday. He turns 30 on a Tuesday, and in spite of the fact that he insists he wants to ignore it completely, Andy wakes him up with mostly edible breakfast in bed, and Pete and Patrick drag Joe to Pete’s house, and the guys from Panic! come over to marathon the Lord of the Rings movies, or, at least, as many of them as there are, starting with the first Hobbit and working their way back. Brendon makes an absolutely unhealthy amount of popcorn, and at some point they pull out a bottle of melon liquor which Joe chugs unceremoniously. Andy agrees to sip it, and immediately spits it back out because it “Tastes like a yeti’s asshole” to which Pete responds that he would know, and kicks Joe in the ribs. Joe retaliates by grinding a handful of popcorn into Pete’s perfectly manicured hair.

 

There’s a cake with the FOB symbol on it in white on chocolate frosting, and Joe grins as he shoves a piece of it into Andy’s mouth, following it up by licking it off his lips for him, which Pete professes is _“the most homosexual thing he’s ever seen in his life and oh my god, Joe, stop it.”_

 

When they’re all suitably drunk (nix Andy) and tired, and have played enough Super Smash that they’ve gained at least three new characters (Marth, Mewtwo, and Mr. Game) Andy and Joe stumble upstairs toward their room (becuase yes, they have a room at Pete’s, how could they not), closely followed by Pete and Patrick, who collapse into their own room, and Brendon and Ryan go off into the guest room, leaving Jon and Spencer down on the couches.

 

Joe slips off Andy’s shirt, having discarded his own hours ago, and latches his mouth onto his bare shoulder, making his head fall back. Andy’s arms snake up around Joe’s neck, because they’re all short, but Joe’s the tallest of the short dudes, taller than Andy, at least.

 

It’s all soft nudging and careful touches, and it ends up with Joe’s chest to Andy’s back, pushing in slow, and gentle, because they don’t need to be fast. There’s nothing to rush, for. He wraps one arm around Andy’s chest and lets his other hand settle on his hip, and Andy reaches around, and curls his fingers into Joe’s hair, angling back into each thrust. Joe buries his face in the crook of Andy’s neck, and bites down, not too hard, but hard enough to mark on the soft skin there, and Andy makes this little whimpering sound in the back of his throat that Joe thinks must be the best thing he’s ever heard.

 

They come in almost perfect unison, and Andy cranes his neck around to mold their lips together. They fall asleep like that, with Andy cradled by Joe’s body, and Joe’s back to the rest of the room.

 

There are no nightmares that night.

 

-0-

 

They’re woken up at 8 AM by Joe’s phone ringing, and Joe grabs it, hits something, and chucks it bodily at the wall before relaxing back down into the bed. Andy feels him grin when he presses back against him, grinding against Joe’s growing morning wood.

“Well, hello, there.”

Andy hums, deep in his chest, and Joe thrusts forward, just a little, just enough to make Andy squirm against him. He peppers kisses up and down the drummers neck, and nips slightly at his earlobe while Andy’s hands dance up and over his arms, coming to rest curled around the back of his neck.

 

Joe starts to pull back, in search of the bottle of lube they kind of threw across the room last night, but Andy stops him, his fingers tightening against his jaw.

“I’m good.” He murmurs, tugging Joe back down toward him. “I’m good.”

 

Joe groans softly, and grips Andy’s hips tight enough to bruise as he pushes in, and it makes Andy whimper, just slightly, the soft, slow burn that feels just as good if not better than it did last night.

 

It’s fast, and sloppy, and ends up with Joe pulling out and wrapping his lips around Andy’s dick, and tonguing him until he spurts all over his own stomach.

 

It’s fucking perfect.

 

When they slump downstairs, fucked-out, but better rested than they’ve been in months, it’s to find Patrick at the rarely-used stove, attempting to make something resembling eggs with Pete coaching him from behind, arms wrapped around his waist while he watches Patrick struggle to use a spatula one-handed.

 

Eventually they all sit down at Pete's kitchen table and eat together, laughing and eventually beginning to throw eggs until Spencer groans that if they don’t shut up he’s going to fucking murder them, and Pete shoves a piece of burnt toast down the back of his pants.

 

All in all it’s the best birthday Joe can remember having.

 

-0-

 

It’s not exactly a set thing that happens that they all move in together. They don’t talk about it, and they definitely don’t have some kind of weird moving-in party, but Andy already doesn’t have his own place, and he and Joe just start gradually spending more and more time at Pete’s house until one day, they realize that they’re not calling it “Pete’s house” they’re calling it “our house” and when Joe goes back to his apartment after three weeks of forgetting not to live at Pete’s, he finds that most of his clothing is already there along with his top three guitars and all his fucking shoes.

 

At some point they stop bothering to ask who has to drive who home, because Andy just slips into the drivers seat and they all bundle into one car and head back to the house, their house.

 

And it’s not as though they haven’t all lived together, before.

 

It’s just that generally, they’ve noticed it happening.

 

Not that anyone’s complaining.

 

Especially when Andy comes down one day at four in the afternoon to find Pete and Bronx passed out on the couch, alive and well and buried under a million blankets, with the TV still playing Scooby Doo: Mystery Incorporated reruns, and it’s adorable, and domestic, and definitely not punk-rock, but he fucking loves it.

 

He loves it slightly less when he comes down two days later to find Patrick frantically zipping up his jeans and Pete jumping up and wiping his mouth.

 

“Dude.” He shakes his head, and puts up a hand when Pete starts to speak. “You have a room for a reason. Use it.”

 

But other than that living all together as a band is pretty baller.

  
  


-0-

 

They’re all in the basement/recording studio/best place ever to get baked in, lazily fucking around with the synth and playing with some of Pete’s new lyrics, when Andy starts kind-of-sort-of humming something, when he thinks no-one’s listening, drumming his fingertips against the edge of the snare, and Pete shoots Joe and Patrick the death glare until they shut up, and the whole room goes silent while Andy mumbles out a few words in time with the pitter patter of his fingers.

 

He looks up, wide-eyed and confused and shakes his head.

“What?”

Pete raises his eyebrows.

“You wrote that.” Andy blinks, and shakes his head again.

“No, I didn’t.” Pete throws a pick at his face, and gives him the look. The special “Hurley-I-Know-You’re-Full-Of-Shit-Your-Jedi-Knight-Demeanor-Does-Not-Fool-Me” look. Andy rolls his eyes.

“It’s nothing.” He says, and Joe smirks at him, just a little.

“It’s never nothing.” He says, because with Andy, it isn’t.

 

There’s a long moment of silence, and then the tapping resumes, accompanied by Andy’s voice, soft and hesitant, but not the way it usually is.

 

Andy only speaks when he has something important to say, and sings even less often. And when he does, it’s quiet, yeah, but it’s with a kind of certainty that only really fucking wise people have.

So when Andy’s voice drifts through the studio, a little shaky and more than a little careful, it’s the most fucking incredible thing Joe’s ever heard.

 

And it’s only made better by the fact that after a few seconds, Patrick gently hits a chord on the piano, and Andy grins, and gets a little louder, lets Patrick play with him. Pete watches Patrick for a second, and then chimes in on bass, and something warm curls in Joe’s chest as he starts fiddling around with something on his guitar, and then they’re all playing, jamming like they haven’t in months.

 

And hot fucking damn if it doesn’t sound amazing.

 

Andy’s lyrics aren't intricate and softspoken, like him, they're a little rough around the edges, and they cut, a bit, and Joe’s enraptured by them, each line pulling him in deeper than the last. _“I smell like cigarettes cause I love to breathe your smoke/ I smell like alcohol cause I drink to believe in more.”_

 

When they go back upstairs and Patrick and Pete are preoccupied with trying to actually toast pop-tarts, Andy slides in on the couch next to Joe, and curls up against his chest, pillowing his head on his shoulder. Joe slides one hand up into Andy’s hair, and kisses his forehead.

 

“It’s good.” He murmurs, and tilts Andy’s head up to press their lips together. “It’s really fucking good.” Andy’s mouth quirks up just slightly at the corners as he says.

 

“It’s for you.” Joe can’t help the shit-eating grin that spreads over his face.

 

-0-

 

A picture of Andy and Joe holding hands outside some shitty fucking club goes viral, right before they play NYC, and Patrick and Pete make no comment, both online and in person, because nothing needs to be said. The world can know whatever it wants to. Or so they’d think.

 

Until their publicist calls and rags on Joe for half an hour about how she expects this shit from Pete, but he’s just going too far, and then subsiquently calls Andy to tell him that he better not pull this crap, again, because he’s by far the most replaceable.

 

Pete tries to fire her, but the label won’t let him. They don’t talk about it.

 

Or, not in the way one might think they would. Instead, halfway through their show at the Javits center, Patrick tells the audience, out of fucking nowhere, that they’re playing I Don’t Care, and of course, Andy doesn’t miss a fucking beat, because Andy never misses a beat, and he’s playing that fucking incredible drum intro before anyone has time to be confused, but Joe’s fucking surprised, because Patrick never changes the set-list midway through a show. That’s more Pete’s thing.

 

But whatever, he goes with it, plays along, no big deal, right?

 

No big deal.

 

Until the break, when everything goes quiet, and it’s just Patrick, Pete and Andy, all beat and voice, and Patrick’s voice, it does this thing it’s never done before, goes all low and soft and sultry, and he’s not playing guitar, hasn’t in months, so there’s nothing holding him back as Joe watches him slide up behind Pete, and slide one arm around his waist, letting the prosthetic hand rest on his upper chest. Pete closes his eyes, but keeps playing, and Joe watches as Patrick’s hand slides down, and down, under the waistband of Pete’s jeans, moving as slowly as he does as he grinds against Pete from behind, one smooth, sinuous motion after another.

 

The crowd screams, and Pete’s head falls back as Patrick licks a stripe up his neck, still singing, his entire body pressed up against Pete’s, hand down Pete’s pants for all and sundry to see, and as he belts the last “I don’t care”, he bites down on the junction of Pete’s neck and shoulder, and holds the mic up to catch Pete’s moan.

 

The fans go fucking wild, and Joe hits the first chord of the last chorus harder than he’s ever hit it before, plays with more fluidity than he can remember playing anything in his life, riding on the same high Patrick is, still wrapped around Pete like he’s about to fuck him right there, on the fucking stage.

 

And when the song’s over, as though the message hadn’t been gotten across enough, Pete, still pressed against Patrick, tilts his head so the mic’s near his mouth and says;

“A few days ago, our publicist had some shit to say to two of the most important people in my life about the fact that they love each other.” His voice is wrecked, and if Joe didn’t know any better, he’d say that Patrick had just made Pete come in his pants on stage, but Patrick picks up where he left off. “So this is just to say, to our dear publicist…” He’s speaking in a quiet, half-growl, and everyone in the crowd is fucking screaming for it. “I. Don’t. _Care_.” The crowd goes wild, and Joe sees Patrick’s eyes flash gold for half a second, just long enough for him to notice, before he’s locking his lips with Pete’s, making them scream even louder, if that’s even possible.

 

They move on, and as the show ends, Pete drags Andy and Joe up to the front of the stage, chanting “kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss” which, of course, the entire crowd of pubescent teenagers starts doing in unison until Andy grabs Joe by the back of the neck and hauls him down to mash their lips together, all tongue and adrenaline and something that Joe can’t quite pinpoint that makes his entire body fill with the kind of static electricity he’s only ever seen at the smithsonian.

 

They all stumble back into the dressing room, laughing and high on life and probably a little of whatever the crowd was smoking, and Joe grabs Patrick and hugs him harder than he thinks he ever has in his life, holds him close while Pete pulls off his jeans and makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat.

 

Joe looks over, and yeah, Pete’s heading to the bathroom holding his jeans, which have blossomed a wet spot right over the crotch.

 

Patrick smiles sheepishly, every bit of the man Joe saw on stage gone as Andy pulls him close, silently latching onto Patrick like a fucking crustacean.

 

“Thanks.” He mumbles, and Patrick nods.

“‘Course.”

  
  


-0-

 

Joe wakes up at four morning with Andy’s face pressed against his chest, and the sun shining slightly through the curtains, highlighting the contours of his back. He traces the tips of his fingers over each line of muscle and then each line of tattoo, getting lost in the feeling of soft skin against his fingertips.

 

His gentled tracing reaches Andy’s jaw and he stops when he sees that he’s awake, staring patiently at him through half-lidded eyes, his mouth quirked in something resembling a smile, and Joe kind of wants to lean forward, and kiss it, so he does.

 

They stay in bed like that for what feels like both hours and seconds, lazily kissing and touching, drifting in and out of sleep, until Pete stumbles into the room, carrying a comatose Bronx, and crawls into bed with them, citing “too drafty in the living room” and Patrick follows close after, curling his body around Pete’s where Pete has cushioned his head against Joe’s side.

 

They all fall asleep like that, warm, and together, and safe.

 

So fucking safe.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Lights in Chicago](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2480993) by [btBatt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/btBatt/pseuds/btBatt)




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